On the Edge of Dangerous Things (Dangerous Things Trilogy Book 1) (4 page)

Si
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Hester had done all she could do to put an end to the “accident,” as she was now trying to think of the tragedy that had occurred at 23 Fish Tail Lane. She stood on the patio and watched as the full moon rose up behind the palms transforming their tops into giant black spiders. She listened to the rush of the surf and the distant hum of traffic on Route 95. Her sweaty body, covered in a scrim of dirt and bugs, ached. She leaned the shovel against the side of the trailer and went in.

After showering in the tepid water that was left in the tank, she put on a thin nightgown, lay on the couch, and prayed for sleep. It didn’t come. Sick of struggling to reach the oblivion she so desperately needed and without bothering to get dressed, she headed to the beach. No one was around, and if they were, she didn’t care if they thought she was crazy. She was, wasn’t she?

From their trailer all the way to the beach, the street was littered with trash. Garbage cans, clothing, flowerpots, broken gutters, beach umbrellas were a few of the things strewn about that Hester could identify in the gloom. She saw a cat tearing into what looked like a package of hot dogs, and there were other small creatures like lizards and rats scurrying about. Hester passed the clubhouse and cut through a patch of sea oats.

The beach too had been ravaged by the hurricane. Hester had to navigate piles of seaweed matted with trash and large pieces of timber. There was a deep drop-off where the pounding surf had eroded the shoreline. Hester jumped down it to get to the water. She walked for what seemed an hour along the edge watching the luminous foam of the waves until she was about to collapse. She climbed back up the ridge and found a spot above what she thought was the high tide line and lay on her back. The moon was far to the west, and the stars looked so close she reached her hand up and pretended to touch them. She wished she could fly up in the sky and be one of them, be light years away from the fact that Nina was dead, that Al might have had sex with her, might have choked her until her neck broke, might have had rough sex with her and accidentally broke her neck. He might have….

Would she ever sleep again with these thoughts looping through her mind?

And then there were the damn bloodstains on the carpet, her trail of blood leading to the bedroom. In the morning she’d phone Stanley Steemers, get them over early, and get rid of at least one mess.

But the bigger mess? The one in the bedroom.

She closed her eyes. The stars she’d been staring at zoomed around inside her head like bullets ricocheting off metal.

There was no cleaning that up
.
Ever.

She was damned for good now, and she knew it. That stupid hurricane had blasted through Pleasant Palms, destroying many things, including—she had to accept it—the life she formerly lived, the one she’d worked long and hard to have.

Why me? Why now? Why….

The next thing Hester knew she opened her eyes and saw a thin line of light on the horizon. She sat up and looked behind her at the part of the sky that was still dark in time to see the last star disappear.

She had a long walk back to the park. When she arrived at the trailer, the day was sunny and bright. The brilliant clouds had grown into a chorus line of giant round-shouldered trolls. The power was still out so Hester filled a pot with water and headed out to the gas grill. She watched a tongue of fire leap from the burner when she turned it on. She boiled the water, stirred in instant coffee, and added powdered creamer. It made her think of Carly Simon singing about clouds in her coffee. The words came back to her: “You’re so vain, you probably think this song is about you…don’t you?”

It reminded her of Al, of how everything always had to be about him.

Seven

Years and years ago, during her interview at Sourland High School, Hester wanted to be the shining star, but it was Vice Principal Alexander Bruno Murphy in his navy suit, crisp white shirt, and thin red tie who stole her thunder. He was gorgeous, and the cock-sure smile on his face made Hester think he knew it.

When he stood to introduce himself, Hester blushed. Her hand turned sweaty. She wiped it on her skirt before she shook his. “So plea-sed to m-meet you,” she stammered. What kind of temporary insanity was gripping her? She needed this teaching position. She was broke and owed a fortune in college loans. She took a breath and focused on Mr. Heck, the principal, instead of on the handsome, young VP whose eyes seemed riveted on her breasts.

Shockingly, she was enjoying the attention. It had been a long time since she wanted a man to look at her, desire her…since she was seventeen years old, her freshman year in college, when her heart was broken, and her spirit crushed.

In order to survive, Hester adopted a strict routine—Sundays go to Mass, weekdays work the cafeteria line, go to class, go to the library, Saturdays volunteer work with the amputees at Walter Reed Hospital, call home twice a week, even though no one answers. No time to get in trouble, no time to make another mistake. And she stayed away from her friends too. They were burning their bras, fighting for equal rights, fighting for birth control. Birth control? The only real birth control was to not want a man. Love was a hot stove that burnt you when you touched it. She swore that she’d never go near it again, not with a ten foot pole. From that time on, Hester stifled all romantic notions and lived a life of strict chastity.

Now, at age twenty-two, she was stunned, and, yes, petrified, by the way she was reacting to Vice Principal Murphy.

She was so distracted by his strong profile when he turned to look at Mr. Heck that Hester almost missed hearing the principal say, “Miss Randal, I think we can conclude this interview by offering you a position in the English department.”

Mr. Murphy stood up and extended his hand and said, “Congratulations, Miss Randal, glad to have you on the team.” Hester was faint with gratitude. She put her hand in Al’s, and it fit like a glove. He squeezed it gently, and her body hummed with longing.

As time passed, Hester’s yearning only grew more intense. Many times she tried to talk herself out of falling for Alexander Murphy, but he had so much going for him: beauty, brains, a strong work ethic. Hester liked that he took his position seriously. And he had a sense of humor. He made her laugh, and he flirted with her. She began to let her guard down.

By Christmas, she found herself completely under his spell. Her life consisted of two main components, working like hell at teaching and dreaming of nothing but Al. She was convinced he was a good man, not at all like the young man she’d thought she loved in college. No, here was a man she could trust, so she was willing—more than willing—to do just about anything to get Al Murphy. She had done a complete about face. She was ready now for love.

Right before the winter break he dropped into Hester’s classroom for a surprise observation. As he was leaving, he turned and said, “In my office after the bell?” It was a question, but his clipped pronunciation made it sound like a command.

“Yes, Mr. Murphy.”

There were still ten minutes left in the class.

What had Hester been saying about Daisy Buchanan anyway? She was so flustered she couldn’t remember. All she could think about was what might happen—what she wanted to happen—when she went to Al’s office.

Her students looked at her curiously like another head had sprouted out of the one she already had. When she said nothing, they looked away and started talking and laughing, and soon the room was full of noise. Still in the afterglow of Al’s visit, Hester stared blankly at them.
God, how unkempt,
she thought,
those boys with greasy hair, wrinkled shirts. The girls, their ratty hair clumped with spray, those tight, slutty-looking tops.

They were a noisy, motley bunch, and not easily contented. How dissatisfied they seemed with their teacher for not being more…more entertaining. Hester knew they’d probably rather watch her immolate before their very eyes, than to have to sit there and listen to her talk about
The Great Gatsby.

Hester wasn’t a very entertaining teacher, but she tried to lead them to the nuggets of insight she found so fascinating in most of what she read. They, however, even if they understood her point, never seemed to care about it. Her first year of teaching was falling far short of the high expectations she’d had for it. In retrospect, even her near-disastrous student teaching experience seemed a success, compared to the circus her classroom was turning into.

“So, class.” She started talking over the jabbering. “Even though Daisy seems so perfect on the outside…how does Fitzgerald put it?”

Here she paused to give them “think time,” but no one was listening.

“Come on, have a little respect.” She hated saying stuff like this because it never worked.

“Okay, so no one remembers?” She felt she had to keep going. The clock was ticking, and she wanted to get past this whole part of the novel today. She didn’t want to stop and discipline Ashley or Pete or anyone. She just wanted to move on, and the class to end.

“Open your books. Go to chapter two. Find the description of Daisy,” she said, sounding like a platoon sergeant. A few actually followed directions. It struck her that they liked being told exactly what to do.

“What in the description would make a reader think Daisy Buchanan is attractive?”

Beth Humbolt’s hand shot up. “Hester, I mean, Miss Randal.”

Snickering.

Beth quickly looked back over her shoulder. Hester had the feeling she must have made some kind of funny face to the kids behind her, because several of them burst into laughter.

Beth paused before she continued, “We already discussed Daisy, Miss Randal.”

Another pause, then, “Remember?”

She dragged out the middle syllable of “remember” and rolled her eyes toward Amy Watson who chuckled.

“Daisy has a ‘low thrilling voice,’” Beth said, making her voice low and husky. Her fans guffawed. She waited till the noise died down. “It was ‘a promise that she had done gay, exciting things.’” Beth strung out the words “gay” and “exciting” in such a way that the whole class erupted in laughter.

Hester, despite being annoyed by Beth’s sarcastic tone, had to admit the girl could quote directly from the text.

In a mocking sing-song voice Beth continued, “I think anyone who does ‘gay, exciting things’ is probably attractive to a lot of people. Don’t you, Hester, I mean, Miss Randal?” She didn’t pause for an answer. “Anyway, we’re supposed to be discussing Tom, Daisy’s husband. You re
mem
ber who Tom is don’t you, Miss Randal?”

“What?” Hester was again at a loss for words.
The little brat thinks I don’t know who Tom is? Is she kidding?

Hester opened her mouth to say something, but as soon as Beth saw Hester’s jaw drop, she kept going. “You asked about how Mr. Frederick Scott Fitzgerald described Tom Buchanan; and while you were flirting, I mean chatting, with Vice Principal Murphy, we were supposed to be looking it up. Remeeeeeember?”

The whole class was in stitches, and Hester felt like Miss Carolyn, that teacher in
To Kill a Mockingbird
who didn’t know what to say; and when she did, it was the wrong thing. Hester surveyed the room: big gangly teenage bodies stuffed into seats too small for them, heads thrown back, mouths opened, ha, ha, ha. They couldn’t stop laughing.

“Hey, settle down. Settle down. Please, come on now. Settle down.” Hester knew her words were falling on deaf ears. It was useless. They laughed and laughed and laughed.

At her wit’s end, Hester put her book on the chalk tray, walked to the side of the room, picked up the trash can, and slammed it down on the floor again and again and again. The laughter stopped. She raised the can up and slammed it one more time. Silence.

“There,” she said, struggling to control the frustration in her voice. “There.”

All eyes were on Hester. She held her breath as she stared Beth Humbolt down. Then in the calmest voice she could muster, “Thank you so much, Beth, for getting us back on track.”

Hester walked in a dignified manner back to the center of the room thinking,
calm down, don’t drop to their level, don’t do what you feel like doing, don’t slap little Miss Know-It-All in the face, don’t let them make you lose your job…better to act like nothing happened
.

“So, Beth, how does Mr. Francis Scott Fitzgerald…” Hester emphasized “Francis” just so the one or two kids who were on the ball, including Beth Almighty herself, would know Beth had made a mistake and that their teacher wasn’t a total idiot after all, “describe Mr. Tom Buchanan and explain what that description implies about his personality?”

“Well, Mr. Frederick, I mean, Francis…who cares? Really, Miss Randal, who really cares?”

Boy
, thought Hester,
what a little pain in the ass. She can dish it out, but she can’t take it.

“Anyway, in chapter two on page nineteen,” Beth continued, “it says he had, and I quote, ‘a rather hard mouth,’ ‘shining arrogant eyes,’ and ‘a cruel body.’”

“Sound familiar, Miss Randal?” It was Robby Pherson from the corner of the room. Now most of the students were chuckling and back to having a good old time as Hester wondered what Robby was referring to.

“God, give me the strength,” Hester mumbled half to herself. “Continue, Beth.”

“Well, men with hard mouths, arrogant eyes, and cruel bodies, although no doubt attractive, are dangerous and just plain not trustworthy. It’s easy to see that Tom can do more damage than just giving poor old Daisy a bruised—”

The bell rang. Beth stood up, turned from her front row seat to face the class, and announced, “I’ll finish tomorrow, class.” She glanced at her teacher, “Bye, Hester, I mean, Miss Randal.”

Hester flushed, her eyes widened with disbelief, and she clenched her teeth so tight her jaws ached. Beth sashayed her way to the door. Hester watched her and couldn’t help staring at the girl’s bulky behind.
God, what a mess, her own mother probably has a hard time loving her.
And just as Hester thought this, Beth whipped her head around and caught Hester. 

“You are so sick.”

Thankfully, no one but Hester heard what Beth said. Still Hester wanted to stop the girl and say, you’re wrong. It’s not what you think. But Hester knew if she said one thing to Beth, it would set her off, and she’d yell something outrageous back like, you were staring at my ass! Weren’t you? Yes, you were and don’t try to deny it.

Beth would make sure her friends thought Hester was a pervert. Even now, she was probably telling them that. Hester had no choice. She had to let the incident go, or she’d be the one in trouble. Discouraged and anxious, Hester grabbed her keys, followed the last student out, and locked the door.

              In the main office, Gladys was slumped over her new electric typewriter. Her dirty blonde hair teased on the top resembled a bird’s nest from the back.

“Hi, Gladys, is Mr. Murphy available? He asked me to meet him here after class.”

Gladys didn’t look up, but Hester saw her hands hesitate above the keyboard before she grumbled, “Check the gym.”

“Thanks, Gladys. See you later.”

“Yeah, later.” Gladys still didn’t look up at Hester, who stood there for a second and wondered why Gladys didn’t like her. It bothered Hester because she knew everybody loved Gladys, and Gladys seemed to love them all back, except for her, whom she seemed quite content to ignore. It made Hester feel like such an outsider. She longed for some degree of closeness with her coworkers, but she wasn’t mixing in the way she’d hoped.

It’s me. Something’s wrong with me,
she told herself.
It’s January. I’ve been here since September. I have to try harder.

Hester blamed herself for being somewhat of an outcast, but she couldn’t help thinking that the staff of Sourland High were all a bit stuck-up. They took pride in the fact that their school wasn’t an educational badland. Students passed the county, state, and college admission tests with no trouble, and that was something to brag about in the seventies in a state like New Jersey. Okay, so it was a great high school. Did that mean that a new teacher couldn’t break into their tightknit circle?

Hester forced herself to stop thinking about the sad state of her social affairs. Who cares? She had plenty of work to keep her busy. She listened to the noisy clip of her heels on the linoleum as she hurried down the hall toward the gym. She had seventy-six more essays to read, two parent phone calls to make, and Supervisor Zeigler was observing her tomorrow. She should’ve asked Mr. Murphy if she could meet with him tomorrow after Zeigler’s visit. She could turn back now and leave a message for him with Gladys. She was sure he would understand. But she didn’t. Instead, she walked faster until she was in front of the closed door to Coach Stalmeyer’s office.

She knocked. “Mr. Murphy? It’s me, Miss Randal….”